I REMEMBER THAT afternoon as the defining day of my life. Saint Ignatius of Loyola said, “Give us the child until he is seven years old, and I will show you the man.”
I assume that he meant the woman as well. I stood there, quiet as a mouse, watching the father I worshiped, sobbing and hugging my dead sister’s picture against his chest, while the fragile sounds from that music box drifted around him.
I look back and wonder if it ever occurred to me to run to him, throw my arms around him, absorb his grief and let his mingle with mine. But the fact is, even then I understood that his grief was unique and that no matter what I did, I could never really ease his pain.
Lieutenant Edward Cavanaugh, decorated officer of the New York State Police, hero of a dozen life-threatening situations, had not been able to prevent the murder of his beautiful, headstrong, fifteen-year-old daughter, and his agony could not be shared with a fellow mourner, however close by blood.
Over the years I came to understand that when grief is not shared, blame is passed around like a hot potato instead, thrust from one to the other, eventually sticking to the hands of the one least able to throw it away.
In this case, that person was me.
Detective Longo lost no time following up on my violation of Andrea’s trust. I had given him two leads, two possible suspects: Rob Westerfield, who used his stunning, sultry, rich playboy persona to turn Andrea’s head, and Paul Stroebel, the shy and backward teenager with the crush on the gorgeous band member who had enthusiastically cheered his game-winning performances on the football field.
Root, root, root for the home team—no one was better at that than Andrea!
As Andrea’s autopsy results were being studied, and preparations made for her interment in Gate of Heaven Cemetery, next to the paternal grandparents I only dimly remembered, Detective Longo was interrogating both Rob Westerfield and Paul Stroebel. Both protested that they had not seen Andrea on Thursday evening, nor had either made plans to meet her.
Paul was working in the gas station, and although it closed at seven, he claimed he had stayed longer in the shop to complete some minor repairs on several cars. Rob Westerfield swore that he had gone to the local cinema, and even produced a ticket stub as proof.
I remember standing at Andrea’s grave, a single long-stemmed rose in my hand, and after the prayers had been offered, being told to place it on Andrea’s casket. I remember, too, that I felt dead inside, as dead and still as Andrea had been when I knelt over her in the hideout.
I wanted to tell her how sorry I was that I had told her secret about her meetings with Rob, and with equal passion I wanted to tell her that I was sorry I hadn’t told about them the minute we knew she had left Joan’s but not reached home. But of course I said nothing. I dropped the flower, but it slid off the casket, and before I could retrieve it, my grandmother stepped past me to place her flower on the casket and her foot crushed my rose into the muddy earth.
A moment later we filed out of the cemetery, and in that crowd of solemn faces I caught angry stares directed at me. The Westerfields stayed away, but the Stroebels were there, standing on either side of Paulie, their shoulders touching his. I remember the feeling of blame surrounding me, overwhelming me, choking me. It was a feeling I have never lost.
I had tried to tell them that when I was kneeling at Andrea’s body, I heard someone breathing, but they were skeptical because I was so hysterical and frightened. My own breathing when I ran from the woods was as labored and rattling as it became during my bouts of croup. But over the years I have been awakened many times by the same nightmare: I am kneeling over Andrea’s body, slipping in her blood and listening to the harsh, animal-like breathing and high-pitched giggle of a predator.
I know with the instinct of fear that has saved humankind from extinction that Rob Westerfield has a beast lurking inside him, and if he is freed, he will strike again.